The verdant pastures of the Westfold, framed by the sparkling peaks of White Mountains in the distance, rolled out beyond the bridge over the Snowbourne, just below the town and the road west to Helm’s Deep. It was the most picturesque spot to watch the coming sunset over supper, which Éowyn had organised for her friends and the King. The garden was on a flat elevated terrace with an open view of the ‘Back Bridge’ as the bridge to the west was informally known, and the winding path to the main entrance to Meduseld passed directly underneath the stone platform over which the garden jutted out from the buildings of the Great Hall. The small garden lay to the side of the main entrance on the same level but was protected from the prying eyes of the town by a pretty flower-laden wooden gateway from which stone steps fell away to give discreet access to the path.
As the ladies waited the arrival of the King from the Great Hall in the seclusion of the garden, Lothíriel was at peace to reflect on her situation. After the wedding two weeks before, she had been subdued on returning to Edoras but not embarrassed by what had happened. They had been warned and she knew she had late-Hithui to get through, although both Cissy and Finglor would be there, which was a great comfort. Yet Finglor had been right, Éomer did confuse her. She felt completely relaxed around him when she was naked, only Cissy, Finglor and Tuor had had that privilege since she had turned thirteen. Not even Galador or her father had been so permitted. She wanted him near her yet wanted to run away at the same time. She felt calmer around him in some ways and yet over-excited in others. But they had grown closer over the intervening weeks. The time in Fendel had changed something between them, he had been so gentle with her at the wedding. As the three women waited for the King on the terrace, Lothíriel’s mind filled up with memories of those last weeks in Edoras. When she pictured him, she saw him laughing, laughing with her and her stories. She remembered those times when he smiled at her even when he thought she was not looking and a warm strange sensation flowed through her.
It was at that moment Éomer discreetly entered the terrace, not from Meduseld as expected, but from the small gateway below the terrace from the path leading to the town. Always seeking her out first, his heart lurched at this new wistfulness he saw in her expression. He stayed watching her, hidden from them as he was behind the climbing wisteria which covered the gateway. He desperately wanted to know the inspiration for her softness. He thought he was beginning to notice some loosening of her wariness around him since the wedding and that the usually uptight Lothíriel seemed calmer around him at last.
He was just about to reveal himself to the ladies, when Cissy stood up suddenly, looking beyond him down towards the Back Bridge. Éomer spun round to follow her gaze. He could make out a man on horseback cantering awkwardly up to the Hall from the little used western path which was far steeper and more winding than the steady incline of the main thoroughfare through the town to the Great Hall.
‘It’s Haldreth,’ Cissy cried, ‘he’s not fit to be riding. This must be serious,’ she said turning to the others before running past Éomer, barely acknowledging his presence in her haste to reach her former charge. Lothíriel had followed Cissy but stopped when she realised that Éomer was there.
‘Éomer! Haldreth was too badly injured on the Pelennor to be riding like this. He’s ridden from Hellerbrook. His late brother’s wife is heavy with child, we were due to check on them in a few days...’ Éomer could hear Cissy crying out to the man, who immediately spurred his horse up towards her as Lothíriel ran to join them. Marvelling that a man who had lost both legs above the knee could ride as far, Éomer called for more help, before striding down to lend his strength to Cissy as an exhausted Haldreth slipped from the horse into Cissy’s waiting arms. He was gasping for breath, barely able to deliver his urgent news, which came out in tortured staccato.
Two guards had appeared at Éomer’s call and carried the distressed man up through the gateway onto the terrace. Lothíriel was already barking out instructions. ‘Cissy, run please and bring me some travelling clothes and the healing bag, now. I will have to go without you. Bring Haldreth up here,’ she ordered the guards. ‘Haldreth, please sit down and drink something. Éomer/ Éowyn, I am truly sorry. I have no choice. I need to get to Haldreth’s sister by the fastest means I know to give her and her baby a chance of life. Please do not be angry,’ she pleaded.
She turned quickly and gave a strange and penetrating call, which defied description. Éomer had never heard a call like it before. ‘You may take Firefoot, Lothíriel. I know you can ride him, and he is the fastest horse in Edoras,’ Éomer offered. Éowyn gasped in shock.
Lothíriel turned around slowly, her head cast down in thought. That had been a most unexpected offer, the stab of pain she felt knowing the hurt she was about to cause threatened to overcome her, but she knew she had little choice if the lives were to be saved and they took precedence. She reached out to take his hand in hers and replied despondently, ‘That is an honour I do not deserve, and I do appreciate just how generous an offer that is, Éomer. Please forgive me, forgive us, for what you are about to see. I cannot explain this now. Please do not think badly of this.’
Cissy came running back with the leather case and thrust Lothíriel’s riding breeches and boots into her eager hands. She quickly donned both under her dress, while addressing Haldreth. ‘Haldreth, tell me exactly how to find your mother’s house, but you must stay here. You must give yourself time to recover.’
‘Lothíriel!’ Éomer tried to interject as Haldreth gave her succinct directions. Éowyn tugged on his arm and pointed into the distance, initial incomprehension gradually changing to astonishment, then outrage. Éomer could see the dark shape of a horse and rider approaching at a speed he knew could only be reached on a Mearas. He looked at Lothíriel in askance. The horse was fully black, which many decades ago would have caused none to marvel but since then all the black Mearas horses had disappeared from Rohan, stolen by the servants of Sauron to be trained as steeds for the Black Riders. Éomer and Éowyn were both thunderstruck at the sight of one now galloping towards them.
Éomer’s instinct told him the rider could only be Finglor and his chest tightened in anger. Only those of the royal bloodline of Éorl had the right to ride a Mearas, which Lothíriel knew well. This was an affront; he could not take it any other way, and in full view of all the townsfolk looking on in amazement. Without a backward glance, Lothíriel picked up the leather sack and leapt from the open terrace onto the cantering horse behind Finglor as he passed beside the terrace wall, and they left as swiftly as they arrived.
Éomer was furious. Cissy bowed her head while Éowyn voiced her displeasure. ‘I assume that was Finglor,’ she said coldly. ‘He has no right to even stroke that horse,’ she fumed.
Cissy rose to attend to Haldreth. ‘How goes it with your sister-in-law?’ she asked him gently, pouring him some tea.
‘Very badly, Miss Cissy. She’s lost too much blood, she started with a fever and the baby was not yet out. I left them an hour ago. I’m not sure she or the baby will live. My brother’s child, the only thing we have left of him after the Pelennor and with my other brothers all dead in battle and me not likely to father any, it will kill my mother to lose the child too.’ Haldreth sobbed tears of exhaustion.
The import of his words cut through Éomer’s rising wrath, noting the warning glance from Cissy, both Éowyn and Éomer were able to put aside their ire in the face of such grief.
‘Finglor is the greatest healer on Middle-earth, Haldreth. If anyone can save them, it is he, and they should get there within a quarter of the time you took to reach us,’ Cissy said holding the man’s hand to give reassurance. Cissy looked up to Éomer and asked, ‘May I attend to Haldreth first, Sire and then I will come and see you as I believe you may have some questions for me.’
Éomer nodded curtly, ‘I will be in my study. Please come when you are ready.’
Éowyn was also waiting for her with Éomer when she entered the study. Éomer barely gave Cissy time to be seated before launching forth.
‘Only the King of Rohan and his heirs have the right to ride a Mearas, to break that law is punishable by death if the King so choses. Admittedly the only reason for the law is to prevent any man stupid enough to think he is capable of riding one!’ he thundered.
Cissy, elegantly poised as ever, said in her delicate soft voice, ‘I can assure you Finglor is not stupid and as he is clearly capable of riding a Mearas, one of your assumptions is incorrect, Sire.’
Éomer looked at her blankly for a moment before comprehension dawned. ‘You mean he is not one of the Dúnedain?’ he asked dumbfounded.
‘I know he has lived among them a very long time,’ she answered diplomatically.
‘He must be one of the Dúnedain,’ Éowyn interjected, not having understood the implication as quickly as her brother, ‘he must be over a hundred years old.’
‘You are possibly missing a nought, perhaps even two,’ Cissy suggested cryptically.
‘An Elf? Finglor is an Elf?’ Éomer said, the truth of it dawning on him.
‘He is unlike any Elf I have ever seen and Tuor and Lothíriel guard his secrets fanatically. But they speak to each other mostly in an Elven tongue I don’t recognise. Finglor knows Aragorn better than anyone. Lothíriel told Tuor recently that she believed the only two people who knew who Finglor really is are Aragorn and Lord Elrond. I swore to Lothíriel that I would never tell anyone that Finglor is of Elven kind, and as far as I am concerned I have not,’ she said with a defiant toss of her head.
‘Thank you, Cissy. I don’t believe you told us that he was an Elf,’ Éomer replied unequivocally. ‘It would also explain his gift for healing. I understand better why Lothíriel took the decision she did today.’
‘If I may offer one piece of advice?’ Cissy continued hesitantly, ‘I only do so from the best of intentions, being as fond of you all as I am,’ she said.
‘You may, Cissy, we know you well enough to know you would not say anything from malice or ill-will,’ Éomer replied sincerely.
‘Never make her choose between you or Finglor, she will always choose him’, she ended. It was not what Éomer had wanted to hear but deep in his heart this he had already understood.